


Lessons in Dancing, and Other Dangerous Maneuvers

by bendingwind



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Love at First Sight, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10321949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingwind/pseuds/bendingwind
Summary: It starts, as many things do, because Leliana is bored and really quite meddlesome.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [churakaagii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/churakaagii/gifts).



Fifty years from now, Lace Harding will probably think back on this laugh.

Probably. Maybe. If she lives another fifty years, anyway.

For now, though, she’s too busy fighting off a heart attack while the Nightingale looks down at her with an expression that seems particularly menacing in the deep evening shadows beside the Herald’s Rest.

“Hi?” Lace says, when the Inquisition’s spymaster remains silent. It sounds like a squeak, but she’s too busy watching her life flash before her eyes to be embarrassed by it.

She should _never_ have told the Inquisitor she was sure the spymaster was going to murder her.

“You took dancing lessons as a child, in the Redcliffe Chantry, did you not?” the Nightingale asks, instead of stabbing her.

Lace wonders briefly if her ale has been poisoned, and she’s already begun hallucinating on the bitter road towards her inevitable demise.

“Hmmm,” the Nightingale says, and Lace remembers that she’s waiting for an answer.

“Oh, um, yes. I took lessons,” she offers, still rather squeakier than is typical. For someone who’s spent the better part of the last month with nothing but trees to talk to, Lace thinks it’s a fairly passable response. Intelligible, at least. “My mother insisted.”

It’s certainly an improvement on her interaction with the gate guard, which consisted mostly of babbled descriptions of the differences between rashvine and stingweed.

“Good,” the Nightingale says. She might even sound pleased, but Lace is frankly unwilling to presume that the Nightingale might _approve_ of something she said, even in the privacy of her own mind. “I have a mission for you.”

“Oh,” Lace says. She’s already pretty sure it’s going to be dangerous, and also she’d have liked a day or so’s rest at Skyhold before moving on.

Duty calls, and all.

The Nightingale seems to take this as an expression of agreement. “As you are no doubt aware, in two months’ time, the Inquisition will attend the peace talks Empress Celene is hosting at her palace near Halamshiral. There will be a masquerade amongst other festivities, and we _must_ make a good impression in front of the Orlesian court. To that end, Ambassador Montilyet has undertaken the task of teaching the Inquisitor to dance, but it has been something of a struggle for them both, with the Inquisitor so often in the field. You, however, are well acclimated to the Inquisitor’s adventures and not a liability in the field; until the date of the ball, you will accompany the Inquisitor at all times, and when opportunities present themselves, you will take it upon yourself to instruct her on how to dance at the Winter Palace.”

Fifty years from now, Lace Harding will (probably) laugh about the absurdity of one of the deadliest women in Thedas cornering her behind a pub and demanding that she teach the _Herald of Andraste_ to dance. For now, she barely manages to pull herself together enough to squeak, “Whatever the Inquisition needs,” before Sister Leliana disappears into the night.

After a moment or so to digest what’s just happened, Lace turns on her heel and heads straight back into the Herald’s Rest. If ever there was a day she deserved a drink, this is it.

***

She wakes in the morning with a fortunately mild hangover and _proper_ orders from Charter, written out and stamped with an arranged appointment with the Inquisition’s ambassador and everything. It’s enough to convince Harding that, unfortunately, the entire exchange was not a slightly inebriated dream brought on by the first comfortable bed she’s slept in in months. 

The thought of a warm bath, if she can just talk one of the laundresses out of some hot water is enough to get her out of bed, at least. She manages to wash herself, her clothes, and her armor and borrow something clean and dry in time to report to the ambassador’s office just after lunch. 

She hears the angry voice from inside too late, and has the door half open and is stepping into Lady Montilyet’s office before she realizes she may be interrupting. The lord standing in front of the ambassador stops his tirade and drops his angrily waving arms to his sides as Lace watches.

“Of course you will have your audience with the Herald, Marquis Frederoix. I am certain she will want to thank you for your contribution to our efforts personally, the moment she returns from the Ferelden coast,” Lady Montilyet responds, polished and placating and the most civilized thing Lace has seen or heard in weeks. She can visibly see the lord’s shoulders relaxing, his anger abating, as the ambassador speaks.

“Of course she cannot have known that I would personally travel to better know where I have placed my trust and my coin,” the marquis says, almost a question.

“A great honor, to be certain, and one I am sure the Inquisitor will appreciate.”

The man bows elegantly, and departs. Lady Montilyet doesn’t watch him go--she merely scribbles a note on her desk, and then pulls over a large slightly-dusty tome for reference.

Lace maybe falls very slightly in love. Just a bit.

She wills herself not to blush as the door clicks shut behind her and the ambassador looks up.

“Oh,” the ambassador says, looking… well, mildly shell-shocked, but Lace is pretty sure she’s misreading the expression, because there’s no reason…

“Um, I had orders to report directly to you after lunch, my lady? Oh! Oh, I’m Scout Harding, by the way. I really hope someone actually did schedule the meeting, and Charter isn’t messing around with me by telling me to show up here, because that would be really embarrassing and also _just like her_ , and, um.”

Lace manages to stop the flow of words through sheer force of will. It’s a close call, though. _Trees_ don’t care if you babble on at them for hours, and she’s out of practice.

“Ah, my apologies,” the ambassador says, seeming suddenly to snap to herself and standing abruptly. “Of course I have been expecting you, I merely became caught up in some preparations for… and of course, Lord Frederoix... well, no matter. Please, sit.”

Lady Montilyet sweeps around the table, her fancy silks swishing elegantly around her, like something straight out of one of the novels Lady Cassandra lent Lace on her last visit to Skyhold, and gestures to the large chairs set before her fire.

Lace bobs an awkward curtsey, and settles into the smaller of the two chairs, nursing her mortification. She must look practically barbaric next to Lady Montilyet, who is politely directing a servant to set down a tray of tea and tiny Orlesian cakes.

“Leliana tells me you have offered to tutor the Inquisitor in the matter of dancing while she is in the field, since my duties keep me here and prevent me from offering more assistance,” the ambassador says, once she’s poured the tea and slipped a delicate porcelain plate bearing two tiny cakes topped with lavender into Lace’s hand. “I am most obliged--truly it was proving a nightmare to try and arrange lessons, with the Inquisitor so often gone. It is most important that we make a good impression on the Orlesian court, and they quite favor dancing.”

“You’re welcome,” Lace says automatically. Her mother raised her to be polite, and she’s particularly grateful for it as she realizes that Lady Montilyet has no idea she’s just following orders.

Maker, she _would_ have offered if… if she’d met Lady Montilyet first.

She tries valiantly not to think about just how far gone she is after only five minutes of conversation.

“Will you be needing anything from me? A musician, a… to be truthful, I am not entirely certain what might assist you most out in the field. The things I would normally offer, an empty room with a smooth floor, dancing slippers, and such… well, I just don’t know what I can do to help, but I would very much like to, particularly since you have so kindly offered to grant me this favor.”

Of course, she stops talking while Lace is in the middle of chewing one of the dainty cakes, looking up at her with lovely, beseeching brown eyes.

Lace nearly chokes in her rush to swallow.

“Oh, um,” she begins, and has to stop and swallow once more as the cake sticks unpleasantly in her throat. “Um, I don’t think so? We’ll just have to do our best with the terrain, and I don’t really want to have to look out for a musician on top of everything else. Warden Blackwall and Dorian can both manage a bit of music if pressed. Lady Cassandra too, though you might as well pry teeth as try to get her to admit it, let alone actually play. Uh, maybe a nice fiddle for Blackwall? His got smashed last time we went through Val Firmin. And if you could see if the Inquisitor would bring him along until she’s learned…”

Lace looks up to find Lady Montilyet watching her from under her eyelashes. It is… well, Lace is pretty sure they can hear out in the courtyard how fast and loud her heart is beating. How embarrassing.

“I would like to thank you once again for your offer, Scout Harding. It is rare that anyone finds time to do me favors, and rarer still when someone comes to offer me a solution before I seek them out. I am most appreciative.”

“You’re welcome,” Lace says, just barely managing to refrain from another awkward bout of babbling. “Again.”

Her tea cup is empty, somehow. She sets it and the plate down, careful not to clink them. She mostly succeeds, and looks up to find that Lady Montilyet is still watching her, only now she’s also _smiling_.

Lace’s face feels hot enough that she knows she must be blushing practically scarlet.

“Perhaps it will be a relief, to spend time with others rather than as a forward scout,” Lady Montilyet graciously prompts.

“Well, yes,” Lace says, willing herself to sound normal. “I guess it will. It still seems weird to talk to things that aren’t, you know, plants and trees… and… whatnot.”

After this is over, Lace is going to pitch herself over Skyhold’s battlements out of pure mortification.

To her surprise, Lady Montilyet laughs, clear and refreshing as a Chantry bell.

“ _Do_ enjoy it,” Lady Montilyet says, and Lace takes that as her cue to excuse herself and go bury her head in the snow.

She stands, performs another awkward curtsy, says, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Montilyet,” and flees.

She makes it out to the courtyard without being stopped, and finds a nice shady nook to hide in. It will have to do, at least until the heat in her face dies down and she feels like she can look at someone without her feelings written all of her face. Her mother always said she wore her heart on her sleeve.

What her mother will think when she hears that Lace has somehow managed to go and fall in love over the span of twenty minutes, with a fancy, polished, pretty, _actually flawless_ noblewoman…

Actually, she’ll probably be thrilled.

Lace sighs, pulls herself out of her hiding place, and begins the trudge to the Herald’s Rest. What she needs is an evening with the Chargers, to distract her from all of this.

***

Things, horribly, do not improve even after Lace leaves Skyhold in the company of the Inquisitor, Blackwall, Dorian and the Iron Bull. She catches herself daydreaming about what it would be like to dance with Lady Montilyet every evening while she waits for the Inquisitor, who’s fussy about things like blood, to clean up enough for their lessons. 

It’s even worse when the daily reports come in, always with a note for Lace from Lady Montilyet asking after the Inquisitor’s progress, Lace’s well-being, and whether or not she needs anything from Skyhold. The notes are on paper pressed with embrium or lavender or other flowers and lightly scented with perfume, and every single one sends Lace into a flurry of daydreams that have sent her, more than once, into a tangle of rashvine.

It’s a lucky thing she isn’t allergic to it.

She has an entire conversation with Dorian regarding the difference in beard pattern growth between male and female dwarves when she absentmindedly mentions how nice his shaving mirror is, and how much better it must be than trying to catch a decent reflection in a stream, and doesn’t even consider it until he gifts her with a small brass mirror of her own when they pass through a town several days later.

She almost goes over a cliff, which would be the _absolute most embarrassing way to die ever_ , when she gets caught up in a fantasy of liberating Josephine from a the bandits that litter the area, and delivering her safely and triumphantly back to Skyhold, where she would be _most_ grateful.

She finds herself trekking through Nettle Pass and wondering what would happen, if she showed up to the masquerade with one of those fancy Orlesian bits on her face and swept Lady Montilyet off her feet. In her more practical moments, she knows that her red hair and, well, and her height would certainly give her away, and probably Lady Montilyet would politely dance with her before excusing herself to attend to someone actually important, but… well, dreams can’t hurt. Unless you’re allergic to rashvine.

They take on the most monstrous spider Lace has ever seen, _including_ the one in Old Simeon’s caves that tried to eat some of her neighbor’s sheep once, and Lace dreams about sweeping in to rescue a Lady Montilyet who had gone out for a walk in the pretty forest, unaware of its dangers. She’d be thankful, and she’d invite Lace back for tea and they would smile at each other over their cups and…

Yeah. It’s bad.

The only time she _doesn’t_ have to be embarrassingly jolted back into the present on a semi-regular basis by her companions, in fact, is the nightly dancing lessons she subjects the Inquisitor to. It’s easy, there, to trade between stepping back and instructing with stepping in to lead and explain bits of the trickier footwork instead of getting lost in silly little fantasies. Dorian chuckles and categorically refuses to help, occasionally waxing eloquent about trite southern dances and how very endearing they are. 

Iron Bull watches with a look that Lace can’t quite figure out--something between entertainment and pity. The pity she understands, at least--she’s traded her own well-worn boots for a pair with iron toes they found on a dead miner for the lessons, because it was the only way she was going to survive without at least a few broken toes. It may also have something to do with the way he teases her, gently, that she “looks like she’s got a crush the size of the Qunandar Monolith sitting on her shoulders,” and that he “hopes she does something about it, or else you’ll break Rocky’s heart for nothing.”

She’s _still_ not really sure if he was teasing her, or...

Fortunately, they are only in the Emerald Graves for two weeks before they find enough regarding the routes templars are smuggling red lyrium on and return to Skyhold.

Lace isn’t sure that returning to Skyhold will actually _help_ , mind, but at least there aren’t any cliffs she can easily walk off of within the keep.

***

She doesn’t make it a whole day after their return. In fact, she barely gets through a handful of errands regarding equipment repair and replacement before the delicate envelope, scented with a familiar perfume, is delivered to her by one of the fancy couriers who bustle around Skyhold exclusively.

It contains another note on paper pressed with a flower, this time a violet, asking if she can find the time to stop by Lady Montilyet’s office that afternoon.

If she were less used to the treacherous footing of the hills and cliff faces near Redcliffe, she’d have gone tumbling down staircases at least twice in her rush to bathe and find something decent to wear. She braids her hair back, pinches her cheeks so they’ll look rosy, and tries not to scold herself too hard for being hopeful in a cause that is absolutely, for certain, hopeless.

(Even her mother agrees, with a polite _Do be careful, my darling, women like that seldom have a choice in matters of romance, and those who are wise choose not to place their heart with someone who will not be allowed to keep it. I feel sure that since you like her so much, your Lady M must be a very intelligent woman._ )

She presents herself to Lady Montilyet’s assistant, and is surprised to be ushered in immediately.

Lady Montilyet glances up from the stacks of paperwork on her desk, and her entire face brightens. Lace thinks. Unless she’s being too optimistic, which is one of her more unfortunate personality traits.

“Scout Harding!” Lady Montilyet says, rising at once. “I am so pleased that you were able to visit me on such short notice. I have so many _questions_ , and… goodness, you’re very tan. The Emerald Graves must have agreed with you.”

Lace knows she’s beaming. She should probably be embarrassed about that, but she’s always been told she has a nice smile, and Lady Montilyet looks so genuinely pleased to see her and… and just this once, she’s going to go with it.

“You, ah, you can call me Lace if you like,” she says, her voice holding just a touch of shyness.

Lady Montilyet smiles widely at her. “Then you must call me Josephine, Lace. Please, sit. You must tell me absolutely _everything_ about the Inquisitor’s progress.”

“Well,” Lace says, as she sits in the same chair she adopted on her previous visit, “I’ve been able to stop wearing iron-toed boots when we practice.”

Lady Montilyet--Josephine--laughs, and it’s just as lovely a sound as Lace remembers. She grins a little, and continues, “Truly, the Inquisitor was a bit slow to pick up on it at first, but when I threatened her with lessons twice a day if she didn’t improve, she started really trying. I think she’ll be plenty good for the likes of the Orlesian court when the time comes.”

“There hasn’t been any difficulty with positions?” Josephine asks, “Our Inquisitor is not, ah, precisely the type used to being led, and you can’t have had much practice in that regard.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” Lace says, without thinking. Josephine tilts her head, asking a question without words in a way that Lace will probably _never_ master.

For a long moment, Lace hesitates. Not everyone has understood, always, and though Josephine will have to know if anything is to happen between them, Lace would be a fool to _really_ believe that a common scout from Ferelden had much of a chance with an Antivan noblewoman from a prestigious family who wields tremendous power in the Inquisition.

But, well, Lace has never lacked for _determination_.

“They thought I was a boy when I was born,” she says, calm and even. It’s not the first time she’s had this conversation. “I had, uh, the bits and all. I told my mom I was a girl when I was five, and to this day she’ll swear she knew the entire time she was pregnant with me that she was going to have a daughter and she was going to name her Lace. So, that became my name. Lace Harding. It just, uh, the chantry took a bit longer to catch up, so they made me dance the boy’s part until my mother found out and, well, put the fear of the Maker into the laysister who taught dance.”

She leans back in her chair and waits. At worst, Lady Montilyet is too gracious to do anything other than to agree and then politely end the conversation.

“Oh,” Josephine says, looking, for a brief moment, genuinely startled. Then she continues, “That’s a shame, that the Chantry sister made you lead because of her own foolishness. Still, I cannot deny that the Inquisition seems to have reaped the benefit of your experience in that regard.”

The smile Josephine offers her is small and understanding, and Lace realizes she’s chewing on her lip and stops.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says, and Josephine’s smile widens and Lace finds herself smiling back.

“Ambassador Montilyet--” the assistant interrupts, from the door, “My apologies, but we have news I thought you’d want at once. The delegation from Duke Gaspard has sent word--they’ll be arriving this evening, a full day and a half ahead of schedule. I’ve already ordered the servants to begin preparations, but no doubt…”

“Yes, of course,” Josephine says, standing. She casts a look at Lace that Lace can’t quite decipher--regret, maybe?--before she says, “My apologies, Sc-- Lace, but there are matters I must see to. Another time, perhaps?”

“Of course, Josephine,” Lace says, and feels her face heat merely at saying the name out loud for the first time.

Josephine bestows her with one last bright smile before she sweeps off, no doubt to do complicated ambassadory things.

Lace lets herself out, smiling so widely she ought to be embarrassed by how obvious she’s being.

She’s not.

***

She spends a lot of the following two days fully indulging her newfound habit of daydreaming romantic futures with Josephine Montilyet, with an occasional break to feel sad that the ambassador has been so busy with Duke Gaspard’s delegation that Lace hasn’t even seen her. 

It makes it a little easier when they depart to return to the Dales, or at least she’s developed enough of a buffer that she doesn’t go careening over any cliffs or into a bed of rashvine on this trip. The notes begin once again, but to her surprise, Josephine begins to attach small personal anecdotes to some of them.

At the end of a note mentioning that teaching the Inquisitor at least one reel might not go amiss:

_Lady N., the primary representative sent by Duke G., is insisting that all dogs be housed outside of the keep proper. She insists she will be able to smell them even if they are at the forward camp, but at least she will be able to tolerate the stench at that distance. The Ferelden delegation, naturally, is deeply offended, and several are insisting that they will leave and take their support with them if her demands are met. You grew up in Ferelden--do you have any ideas? Perhaps a scent for the dogs, or a pomade of some sort? Can dogs be bathed?_

_As always, please do let me know if there is anything you need._

_J.M._

Lace writes back that dogs can be bathed, but it would probably be better to start stocking the small would-be pond in the lower courtyard with ducks. All the dogs will congregate there, and no matter how sensitive Lady N. insists her nose is, she won’t possibly be able to smell them. Some dogs might also enjoy the stables, she adds, and she sends the raven off feeling deeply pleased that she was able to help Josephine with something _real_ , and not just teaching the Inquisitor another reel on top of the dozens they’ve already practiced.

A few days later she receives a note thanking her for the advice, but she might perhaps have mentioned that the ducks would inspire the dogs to bark day and night and that they would become even smellier after splashing around in the pond. Lace laughs to herself and tucks the note in with the others, none of which she should really be keeping, but well…

Well.

Another note, the day after that:

_Duke G.’s representatives have departed, finally, and it is much calmer here. It is, of course, always a delicate dance to keep our varied supporters pleased and playing nicely with one another, but it’s so much easier when they are not all locked up in the same castle. Even the loss of the chef Lady N. brought with them--the finest I’ve encountered outside of Val Royeaux--seems small in comparison. I am astonished to say that I prefer the return to daily turnip and rice stew our own cooks seem to favor, if it only means that she is gone._

_Is there anything you need from me?_

_Be well,_

_J.M._

The letter Lace writes back this time is probably inappropriately long and rambling, unconstrained by even the stretched bounds of professionalism of Josephine’s letters. It details at embarrassing length all of the food she misses from home, all the dishes the chief cook at Skyhold makes the wrong way because he’s from Ferelden’s coast and they’re too used to fish in _everything_ , and… well, it goes over a lot. If anyone writes her biography one day, Lace thinks this might be the prime source of their material.

She sends it anyways, because she’s got nothing to lose here. And maybe, maybe, if her luck is really incredible, something to gain.

The next missive, delivered the day before they are to return to Skyhold, does not come with a note, but it does come with several links of fine Ferelden cured nug, proper stuff from West Hills. Lace contributes it to the communal stew that night, and lives to regret not keeping it all for herself.

The letter she writes that evening is even longer than the last, and ends:

_We’re heading back tomorrow morning. If it suits you, might we find time to meet?_

_Lace_

***

To her dismay, Lace returns to find Skyhold packed to bursting with noble fops, here before the bulk of the Inquisition departments for the winter palace three weeks hence. She barely even manages to catch a glimpse of Josephine through the door to her office the entire three days they’re resting at Skyhold, and even that sighting is because so many petitioners are crowding into her office that both the door to the office and the door that separates the small staircase to the lower levels are open at once.

As she pulls herself onto her pony the fourth morning, prepared to depart for three more weeks in the Dales before they meet up with the Inquisition just south of Halamshiral to proceed to the winter palace, Lace resigns herself to not seeing Josephine again before the masquerade. And that, of course, assumes that she will be _at_ the masquerade, which is very much in question. She certainly has not been invited, and she only has daydreams to give her any hope that an Inquisition scout--even one of their finest--would be invited.

Then, to her surprise, a familiar, lilting voice calls out across the yard beside the stables.

“If you would wait a moment!”

Josephine finishes her dash down the stairs, and did she go through the _kitchens_ to get here? She stops a pace away from Lace’s pony, looking delighted if very slightly winded.

“I wanted to apologize in person that I did not get the chance to meet with you, Lace,” she explains quickly, before Lace’s daydreams regarding this unexpected twist can get _too_ out of hand. “My duties, as I am certain you noticed, have been extremely demanding as of late. I simply could not find the time, no matter how I tried.”

Slowly, smiling too widely, Lace says, “You’re here now,” and Josephine looks up at her with a slow smile of her own.

“I suppose that I am,” she says, sounding extremely pleased. Lace feels more confident about it this time--Josephine is definitely happy to have been able to see her.

“Hey, lovebird,” the Inquisitor calls, from where she has mounted her own majestic black Nordbotten warhorse. “Wrap it up, we need to leave!”

Lace looks back at Josephine, whose blush is visible on even her darker skin, and tries to ignore the pounding of her heart.

“I really liked the nug,” she says, with a lopsided smile. Josephine beams back.

“I am glad. I shall write to you while you are gone?”

“Please,” Lace says, before the Inquisitor makes an impatient sound and she has to turn away.

“Be safe!” Josephine calls after her, and Lace figures she can’t help but be exactly that, when she’s (maybe) got Josephine waiting for her when she gets back.

***

It becomes very clear, over the following weeks of driving the undead out of the Exalted Plains, that Josephine took her gratitude for the gift to heart. The first missive she receives includes a brief report from Leliana, a note from Josephine, and packet of sweet-smelling lavender to help Lace sleep. It’s the kind of foolishly romantic gift that sends Lace back into a fog of daydreams, and the lavender is tremendously helpful at distracting her from the vague smell of the rotting undead and acrid smoke that seems to permeate the region. 

The atmosphere, as it happens, makes for poor learning on the Inquisitor’s part.

Still, Lace feels the Inquisitor is more than a passable dancer at this point, and so she continues to report that things are going well to Josephine. No need for her to worry just because the Inquisitor hasn’t quite mastered the wall-walk shuffle.

Another missive follows the first, this time with a note from Josephine mentioning that taking on a despair demon single-handed _sounds_ very brave but she hopes Lace will do no such thing ever again, and a small pendant with a Ferelden charm for bravery.

Lace takes to tucking it under her shirt so that she doesn’t have to explain to anyone why she suddenly wears a new necklace everywhere she goes.

(She thinks the Inquisitor notices, though, because she teases Lace about becoming the next subject of Varric’s romance novels an _awful lot_.)

Soon there is a small gift with each stack of reports; more of the tiny cakes, delivered in a special box, lovely warm fennec gloves when the spring weather takes a turn for the frigid, a flask of fine Highever whiskey on her birthday. Lace isn’t sure she wants to know how Josephine picked her favorite or knew her birthday, because she _is_ pretty sure it involves Sister Leliana knowing too much about her.

Each gift is accompanied by a note detailing rather more than Lace ever thought she’d find out about Josephine’s day-to-day, her family, her past…

Lace hopes, maybe more than is quite safe, that this means she’s not the _only_ one who fell head over heels entirely too quickly.

As things wind down in the Dales and they prepare to meet the Inquisition at Halamshiral, a final letter arrives.

_It has occurred to me that it would be terrible manners if I, having imposed on your skills in instructing the Inquisitor all this time, failed to invite you to be a part of the Inquisition's retinue attending the Grand Masquerade at the Winter Palace. I would very much like if it you would accompany us to the festivities. Mme. Vivienne will meet your party tomorrow in Lydes along with her tailor. As a gift of the Inquisition and a thank you for your assistance in this matter, I have taken the liberty of commissioning a gown for you to wear. I hope you’ll forgive my presumption, but the Inquisitor said you hadn’t brought formalwear with you to the best of her knowledge, and it seemed an appropriate gift._

_Sincerely,_

_Josephine_

Lace spends the rest of the day shifting between daydreams and furious, beaming blushes, to the great amusement of the Inquisitor and her companions. It’s even worse when they reach Lydes and meet up with Vivienne’s tailor, who does not comment on the particular design challenges presented by Lace, and instead immediately selects a lovely wine-colored dress that he shifts and tucks and pins until it Lace looks like an actual princess. Lady Vivienne comes in just long enough to nod something that Lace is _pretty_ sure is approval before leading the tailor away to see to the Iron Bull. It seems she has used this as an excuse to get him into something more decent, also.

Lace hardly minds.

They stay in Lydes for the night, giving the tailor and his apprentices enough time to finish adjusting the new clothes and ensure that they fit properly, and in the morning they leave for Halamshiral. Lace doesn’t sleep a wink.

***

It becomes apparent very quickly, once all the stabbing and court intrigue is over, that they have all made a grave mistake. The stately, stuffy steps of Orlesian dance, lightly peppered with graceful swoops, are nothing like the fast-paced reels and cheerful line dances Lace has been teaching the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor doesn’t seem particularly bothered by this, calling out a request for _The Soldier and the Seawolf_ when asked to dance and leading the Orlesians in a delightfully gleeful and scandalous reel.

Lace, for her part, ducks into the shadows of the vestibule and hopes that the Inquisitor’s advisors won’t be _too_ angry with her. How was she supposed to know that people in Orlais didn’t even _dance_ like people back home? The laysister who had taught her had been Orlesian, even.

She’s worked herself up into a bit of a state and come up with at least ten different lines of defense regarding her apparent failure when familiar laughter makes it to her ears. She attempts to shrink back further into the shadows, but she’s too late--Josephine’s eyes catch her own, and to Lace’s surprise, Josephine _smiles_ and makes her way towards her.

“You look lovely,” Josephine says, saving Lace from herself by cutting off the tirade of apologies that was on the tip of her tongue. She’s flushed, probably from the wine, though Lace certainly _wishes_ it was because Josephine thinks she looks pretty.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly enough that she’s not sure Josephine will hear her.

“I’m afraid it’s become apparent that I should have asked a little more about your knowledge of dance,” Josephine says, but she’s still smiling, and in fact--her lip twitches, and she breaks out into a tiny fit of giggles. Lace’s heart thuds treacherously in her ribs. “Fortunately it seems that the Orlesians are… quite charmed with our Inquisitor’s rustic sensibilities, I believe was the term Leliana used. I have only myself to blame. I was so delighted to get the opportunity to speak with you--ah.” Her flush darkens, rosy on her dark skin. “I’ve said too much, perhaps. Unless you… also?”

Lace pauses, too long, while she digests Josephine’s words and realizes what she’s asking. What Lace _thinks_ she’s asking. How can she be sure when… well, when Josephine is _Josephine_ and she’s just Scout Harding, cleaned up nice for a party but still the same farmgirl from Redcliffe. 

“Um,” she says tentatively, with maybe a bit too much hope in her voice. She isn’t sure what to say, what to do--and, absurdly, a scene from Varric’s indisputably awful romance serial comes to mind. Even more absurdly, she asks: “Would you like to dance, Lady Josephine?”

Josephine practically beams at her.

“ _Yes_ , please.”

Lace holds out a hand, and then hesitates. “It won’t… cause a scandal, will it? I mean, if this is… if you… I mean I…”

She was never very good with words.

“I am not entirely certain that I care,” Josephine says, and she takes Lace’s hand in hers and leads her back into the ballroom.

Lace can hardly wait to learn Orlesian dancing.

***

On one of the balconies overlooking the dance floor, Leliana smiles.

“Still up to your terrifying matchmaking, I take it,” a familiar voice says from behind her. Of course Leliana had known she was here, but it’s strange, nonetheless, to hear the rich drawling tones of her old companion. 

“It’s been a long time, Leliana. How we’ve both risen in the world since. But perhaps some things do not change, even with the passage of time?” her old companion says, rather than asks, as she comes up to stand beside Leliana.

She tries to focus on the gleam of success seeing Josie and Scout Harding on the dance floor brings her, but Morrigan seems determined to cut in.

“No greeting for an old friend? I am to accompany you back to Skyhold, you know.”

“A snake in our bosom,” Leliana agrees amiably, because she suspects Morrigan will not leave until she has gotten a rise out of her.

“More of a spider, surely,” Morrigan says, flashing her a grin, and Leliana doesn’t try to conceal her chuckle.

“A spider in our cupboard, then. And I had no choice--Josie had been infatuated for _weeks_ , between the freckles and the reports of Scout Harding’s heroism on the field. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to see it for yourself; I’m told she’s really quite fearless. I thought it was time to see if anything could come of it, with the right wheels put in motion.”

“Pitiful,” Morrigan says, but the smirk curling up the corner of her lips belies her amusement. She always did like a good game.

“Truly,” Leliana agrees, and they lean on the rail, watching the dancers below, for some time.


End file.
